“You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. For both of us.”

Chelsea opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it just as fast. Another visible tremble swept through her slender body before she disappeared behind the safety of her closed door. Dylan stood there and tried—oh, he tried—not to make her and her son his responsibility.

Because nothing had changed there, either. They weren’t.

She was in a tough predicament, yes, but she had refused his help. That should be enough to allow him to walk away without feeling any residual guilt. He couldn’t, though.

Just couldn’t.

Swearing quietly, he finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. He’d see what he could do about giving Chelsea and Henry Bell their new “fresh start,” but without her knowledge. And once they were adequately settled, he’d put both of them out of his head and wipe his hands of the whole ordeal.

Before his Foster DNA kicked in again and had him doing something even more insane. Like falling in love with both mother and son. Nope. That couldn’t happen.

Wouldn’t. Happen. No way in hell.

* * *

The Colorado Fosters: They’d do anything for each other … and for love!

Dylan’s Daddy Dilemma

Tracy Madison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TRACY MADISON is an award-winning author who makes her home in northwestern Ohio. As a wife and a mother, her days are filled with love, laughter and many cups of coffee. She often spends her nights awake and at the keyboard, bringing her characters to life and leading them toward their well-deserved happily-ever-afters, one word at a time. Tracy loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at tracy@tracymadison.com.

To my darling, sweet Arabella, whose smile outshines the sun.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Now what? Defeated and drained, Chelsea Bell tugged on her four-year-old son’s hand and led them toward the battered, almost-out-of-gas Chevy Malibu that had brought them the 260-plus miles from Pueblo to Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

Henry didn’t ask why they were returning to the car, just shuffled alongside her, his spare body bowed against the chilly wind. Surprising, really, when just minutes ago she’d promised that they were done driving for a while, and that this beautiful A-frame house with its amazing mountain views was their new—albeit, temporary—home.

The house-sitting job had been exactly what she needed for a fresh start. A roof over their heads and decent pay for close to five months meant she’d have plenty of time to locate permanent employment and a small, affordable place to live when the seasonal gig ended in September. Unfortunately, seconds after knocking on the front door, she’d learned that they’d come all this way for nothing. The job was gone, given to someone else.

A solid portion of bad luck, timing and her own poor judgment were to blame.

First, her car had malfunctioned, requiring last-minute repairs the mechanic had deemed nothing more than Band-Aids. He’d strongly suggested she junk the car and put her money toward something newer. Of course, she couldn’t afford newer, so she’d gone with the short-term fix and used a chunk of her not-so-healthy savings in the process.

Then Henry had awakened with the flu on the day they were supposed to leave, delaying them further. She’d called her would-be employers twice before her pay-as-you-go phone had run out of minutes, had left messages but hadn’t actually spoken with them. And seeing how she’d spent so much to fix her car and didn’t trust it wouldn’t break down again, she’d decided to conserve her drastically dwindling funds rather than adding more minutes.

She should have bought the minutes, because when the home owners attempted to reach her and found her phone out of service, they’d assumed she’d bailed. A logical assumption under the circumstances, and one she likely would have made in a similar situation. Understanding the whys, however, didn’t change her current predicament one iota.

There were no two ways about it. She was good and stuck.

Shivering as much from her jagged emotions as the cold, late-winter weather, Chelsea opened the door to the backseat. “Hop in, kid,” she said in as cheery a voice as she could muster. “Seems our plans have changed. How does dinner sound? I bet you’re hungry.”

“I thought we were staying here.” Henry crawled into the safety booster seat and tiredly rubbed his eyes. Unlike most kids, he never slept well in the car, so the long drive had worn him out. Her, too, but she’d grown accustomed to exhaustion. “I don’t wanna drive anymore.”

“We’re not going far,” she promised. “I saw several restaurants in the center of town. I was thinking we could stop for burgers and fries.” After buckling him in, she tousled the top of his sandy-brown-covered head. “Unless you’d rather have another peanut-butter sandwich?”

In an effort to save for this trip, their menu for the past many weeks had largely consisted of peanut-butter sandwiches. She had little doubt her son would jump at the chance to eat his favorite dinner in a real restaurant. An extravagance she absolutely couldn’t afford, but the kid had to eat and she needed the break to decide what they should do next.

“Burgers!” Henry’s face lit up in a megawatt smile. “And a root beer!”

“Milk,” she countered. “You had a soda when we stopped for gas.”

“Juice?”

“Milk,” she repeated before closing his door. Always the negotiator, that was her son. She slid into her seat and with a silent prayer put the key into the ignition. The engine balked, hacking and coughing itself awake before settling into its normal state of aggravated compliance. She backed out of the driveway with a sigh of relief.

Henry remained quiet as they drove, likely due to a combination of fatigue and contemplation over the milk debate. Breathing deeply, Chelsea tried to ignore the heavy pressure on her chest. This was bad. Really bad. Other than Henry—who counted on her to make his world safe—she was alone in a strange city with little cash and nowhere to go.

Tears stung her eyes as the reality of her dilemma sank in.

Should they turn around and return to Pueblo? She didn’t have to look in her wallet to know it held one crumpled five-dollar bill and two twenties. There were a couple of ones in her coat pocket and probably a handful of change lurking in the bottom of her purse. All told, she had less than fifty dollars to her name. Enough, maybe, to get them back to Pueblo. If she drove straight through and her car didn’t gasp its last breath en route. But why?

She’d spend most—if not all—of her cash in the process, and frankly, there wasn’t much of anything left for them in Pueblo. No home. No job. No true friendships. Henry’s father—if anyone dared call Joel Marin that—had walked into the sunset shortly after learning she was pregnant. For most of Henry’s life, she hadn’t heard one peep from him, but six months ago, she’d received a postcard—a damn postcard, mailed from California—with a scrawled “Was thinking of you and wanted to say hi!”

Really? Close to five years, zero communication, zero support, zero interest in Henry, and he sent her that? And how had he gotten her address?

She didn’t know, but she’d thrown the postcard into the trash and had put him and it out of her mind. Then, two months ago, she’d heard he was back in Pueblo. He hadn’t shown up on her doorstep, so she’d assumed he didn’t want to see Henry, but just knowing they were in the same city was enough for her to decide to pick up stakes and move on.

Plainly speaking, she wanted nothing to do with Joel Marin. Ever again. And she felt more emphatically about keeping Joel away from Henry. Her son deserved better than a fly-by-night, immature man who had bolted from his responsibilities as a father. The fact Joel was now in Pueblo only added a check mark to the con side of her what-to-do-next list.

And what remained of Chelsea’s family—save her sister, but Lindsay had her own set of problems—would just as soon hang up on her than offer their help.

So. She could be broke, alone and homeless in Pueblo and deal with the remote possibility of Joel popping into her life, or almost broke, alone and homeless in Steamboat Springs, but without the worry of Joel hanging over her head.

Inappropriate laughter bubbled in her chest. When thought of like that, the choice was pretty damn simple. Sad and scary, but simple. She’d rather save the money she had and take her chances here than head back to a place she couldn’t wait to leave.

Okay, then. One decision made. Now she just had to find a new fresh start. She’d done it before and she could do so again.

“You win, Mommy,” Henry said from the backseat. “I’ll drink the milk.”

“You will, huh? That’s good to hear.”

“Yup! Chocolate milk!”

She almost argued, but decided to give in on this front. “I think we can make that happen.” Amused despite the weight of her fears, Chelsea braked at a stop sign. Her son’s tenacious, never-give-up attitude always reminded her of what was important. Even when the world seemed bent on crumbling around them. So, yeah, he’d get his chocolate milk, and she’d keep them safe. Somehow. “Thank you, Henry.”

“For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just for being you.”

Henry laughed, and the normalcy—the joy—of that sound wove into her heart and rekindled her hope. “I like being me,” he said, “so it’s easy. And fun!”

And that, Chelsea thought as she pulled into the parking lot of a place called Foster’s Pub and Grill, was a motto everyone should live by.

* * *

Dylan Foster winked at the curvaceous blonde who’d flirted mercilessly with him ever since sitting down at the bar an hour earlier. She’d started off with a beer before moving on to a rum and Diet Coke, and had just ordered a Snowshoe shooter, which consisted of bourbon whiskey and peppermint schnapps. Three drinks in an hour didn’t cause him concern—he’d obviously seen far quicker consumption rates—nor did the relatively quick uptick in the alcohol percentage in each successive drink bother him all that much.

What worried Dylan was the look in the blonde’s eyes. He’d tended bar at his family’s establishment long enough to recognize when someone was on a mission, and unless he was completely off base, this woman was bent on retaliation. Probably due to some man doing something stupid and ticking her off. Or breaking her heart. Or, he supposed, both.

And he drew these conclusions based on the mix of sorrow and heat in her gaze, her relentless come-ons toward him and the guy sitting next to her—hedging her bets, he assumed—and finally, the way she kept looking over her shoulder toward the pub’s entrance. Waiting for the husband or boyfriend to show up and find her drunk-happy with some other guy.

Not him. He wasn’t interested in a one-night, two-night or any-number-of-nights stand. But the man seated on the bar stool to the left of the blonde had responded eagerly to her not-so-subtle advances. Which could then mean a potential fight if and when Mr. Heartbreaker chose to make an appearance. So, yep, Dylan was concerned.

Foster’s Pub and Grill was, more than anything else, a restaurant that housed a bar. Sure, they’d had their share of rowdy gatherings, and they would again. Typically, though, they were a casual place for the tourists and locals alike to grab a meal, a few drinks and kick back after a day on the slopes. Or after hours of hiking or white-water rafting during the summer season.

He never relished the idea of trouble, but seeing how tonight was one of the last before the winter season ended, he was damn tired. He just didn’t have the energy for trouble. So he winked at the blonde to draw her attention from her other prey, hoping she’d focus on him and forget about Mr. Miller Lite long enough for the guy to seek out greener pastures.

Or just give up and leave. Either would suit Dylan. His plan beyond that was sketchy, but he figured he’d be able to contain the situation, assuming one presented itself, if he removed as many unpredictable factors as possible.

He winked again for good measure and slid the shooter across the surface of the bar. “There you go,” he said. “Might want to slow down a bit after this one.”

“I have no intentions of slowing down,” the blonde said, accepting the shooter and downing it in one long gulp. “And I don’t have to drive tonight, so...another, please.”

Dylan considered cutting her off, but he didn’t really have a legit reason. Her words were clear and she wasn’t swaying in her seat, and she’d just stated that she wasn’t planning on driving. So he went about making her another Snowshoe.

“Anyone ever tell you how sexy your eyes are?” she asked when he set the drink in front of her. “What color are they, exactly? Green...brown...hazel?”

“Depends on the day,” he said, answering her second question. Both he and his younger sister, Haley, shared their Irish mother’s coloring, including her chameleon eyes and brown hair with, in the summer, glints of red. Haley called the color auburn. Dylan preferred the simpler description of plain old brown. His older brother, Reid, and younger brother, Cole, took after their father, sporting almost-black eyes and hair. “And, I’ve been told, my mood.”

“Ooh,” the woman said. “And what might your mood be right now?”

Before an appropriate response—one that couldn’t be taken as too flirtatious—presented itself, the door to the pub opened, snagging his and the blonde’s attention. Not the heartbreaker, Dylan was relieved to see, but a young boy who all but tumbled into the restaurant, followed closely by, presumably, his mother. Even from across the room, both appeared windblown and out of sorts. Tired, too, if the woman’s hunched shoulders were anything to go by.

Grasping her son’s hand, the woman pulled him farther into the restaurant and, after searching the area for an empty table, headed toward their solitary choice: a tiny two-seater near the bar. They removed their coats and sat down, and the woman—a tall, too-thin brunette—closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Not just tired, Dylan amended, but exhausted.

Far more curious than he should be, he grabbed a couple of menus from under the bar and, with an easy grin directed at the blonde, said, “Duty calls.”

“Hurry back,” she said, batting her mascara-coated lashes at top speed. “I’m almost ready for another drink, and you haven’t answered my question yet.”

Question? Oh, about his mood. Seeing how his solitary goal was to go home—alone—and sleep until ten tomorrow morning, he doubted she’d like his response. Rather than saying anything, he nodded and made his escape. As he approached the table where the brunette and the child were, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t interested in the least.

He was just lending a hand. Foster’s was short staffed tonight, and Haley—who normally worked behind the scenes in the office—was working double duty by waiting tables. At the moment, she had a tray balanced on each arm and was maneuvering a path around the packed tables toward an extralarge group of customers.

Nothing wrong with easing his sister’s load a little.

Believable enough, Dylan supposed, except for the fact that Haley was a damn fine waitress. She’d see and attend to the new arrivals soon enough. Why, then, did he feel compelled to deliver the menus himself? Especially when he had a full bar to contend with and his worrisome premonition that the flirty blonde was trouble? Didn’t matter.

He’d drop off the menus, tell the brunette and the boy about the evening’s specials, and that would be that. Haley could take over from there.

“Evening,” he said when he reached their table and had handed them their menus. “We have several specials going on tonight, including—”

“I want a hamburger and root beer, but Mommy says I have to have milk,” the boy interrupted, his excitement obvious. “So chocolate milk and French fries. With dip!”

“Ranch dressing,” his mother supplied. “And the burger should be well-done, with nothing on it except for cheese and mustard. Do you... Is there a kid-size burger?”

“Yup, there is,” Dylan answered, fighting the urge to grin at the child’s exuberance. Heck, the rascal was so jazzed, he kept bouncing in his seat. It was cute. Pulling the order pad from the pocket of his apron, Dylan focused on the mother. She was cute, too. “What about you? Do you need a minute to look over the menu, or would you like to hear the specials?”

The question seemed, oddly, to fluster the woman. She dipped her chin so she was looking at the table rather than at Dylan. “Oh. I...already ate. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“That’s not true,” the boy said with a curious glance toward his mother. “Not since before we left for the brand-new fresh start this morning. I remember. You had a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of water and you didn’t even eat when I did at lunch.”

“Henry, I’m...” She trailed off, lifted her head and shrugged at her son. “I guess you’re right, but I’m not that hungry, so—” she returned her gaze to Dylan “—just the coffee, please.”

“Sure,” Dylan said, jotting down the order. The action gave him a second to consider the give-and-take he’d just witnessed. That, along with the dark circles under the brunette’s eyes and the exhaustion he’d already recognized, made him think she was in some sort of a jam. Not that he should care one way or the other. Not his business. “Coffee it is, then. How do you take it?”

“Cream, no sugar.”

“Kitchen is busy, so the wait might be slightly longer than normal,” he said. “I’ll have someone bring a bread basket, free of charge, to compensate.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Nope, it isn’t. But it’s what we do.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away before he could offer her a free meal to boot. Because dammit, that was what he wanted to do, and the want made no sense. He did not swoop in to save damsels in distress. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time. Besides which, maybe she really wasn’t that hungry or in a jam.

Maybe, for once, he’d completely misinterpreted the signals.

* * *

“This is so good,” Henry said, dipping the very last French fry into a shallow bowl of ranch dressing. “I like our fresh start so far.” Squinting his eyes, he quickly revised his statement by saying “Now that we’re done driving, I mean.”

“We are definitely done driving, sweetheart.” Chelsea tore off a piece of bread and chewed it slowly. She had been hungry, but Henry’s meal, her coffee, plus the tip was already more than she could afford. So despite her earlier refusal, she was grateful for the bread.

Oh, they still had half a jar of peanut bar and a loaf of bread in the car, along with packages of crackers and cereal bars and a few juice boxes. She wouldn’t have actually starved without the bread basket, but she likely wouldn’t have allowed herself to dip into their food supply again until the morning. After all, she didn’t know how long it would have to last.

While Henry had eaten his burger, she’d gathered the stray dollars from her coat pocket and the loose change from the bottom of her purse. Now, at least, she had a total. They had forty-seven dollars and seventy-two cents to work with. That was it. And when she paid their bill here, she’d have thirty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents left.

She might have to swallow her pride and reach out for help. Her choices were few. Lindsay, maybe, if Chelsea could contact her sister without her husband’s knowledge. Risky, though. Kirk was a carbon copy of their father—a guy who believed women existed for the sole purpose of doing a man’s bidding—and he controlled nearly every aspect of Lindsay’s life. Because Chelsea recognized this about Kirk and had attempted to talk her sister out of marrying him, Kirk did everything possible to keep the sisters apart.

Mostly, he’d managed to do so. For whatever reason, her sister refused to see the truth. Even so, she loved Chelsea. She’d send whatever money she could, but Chelsea did not want to cause more problems. Better for everyone involved if she kept her sister out of this mess.

That left Melissa. A friend, but not a close one. Chelsea’s fault, as she never allowed anyone to get too close, but Melissa had always been kind. They’d both worked as waitresses, usually on the same shift at an all-night diner, and less than two weeks ago, Melissa had hugged Chelsea and asked her to keep in touch. A kind woman, yes, but how could she ask for assistance from another single mother who was already fighting to make ends meet?

Melissa would likely try to help, but knowing her circumstances meant that Chelsea shouldn’t ask. Sighing, she shook her head. No, it meant she wouldn’t. The decision had zip to do with pride. She’d gotten herself into this situation; she’d have to find a path through to the other side. Without calling on her sister or Melissa.

And that put her exactly where she’d started, where she’d purposely put herself time and again: alone. Without a safety net or a solitary person to lean on, or even a plan B.

For the first time in a long while, Chelsea wished she hadn’t built such a solid, impenetrable wall around herself and that she’d let one trustworthy person into her life. The problem, she knew, was in order to determine if a person was trustworthy, you first had to risk that they weren’t. Which then allowed them close enough access to cause some serious damage.

In her experience, the risk had never paid off. But if she’d been luckier, and if such a person existed in her life, maybe she wouldn’t feel so inadequate and alone right now.

Desperation clawed in Chelsea’s stomach. Her only true priority for the past four and a half years had been Henry. Every decision she made had his best interests at heart and now...well, she’d failed at keeping her son safe. And unless she could find a motel in Steamboat Springs that only charged ten dollars for a night’s stay, they’d be sleeping in the car.

Oh, God. No. Just...no.

Instructing herself to breathe, to calm the churning panic so she could think without emotion, she focused straight ahead and saw the man who’d brought them their menus.

Tall and lithely muscular, he worked the bar with an ease that spoke of years of experience. Somehow, watching his quick, seemingly effortless movements softened the tightness in her chest. It was a reprieve of sorts, so she continued to watch as he prepared and delivered drinks, as he smiled and chatted and sometimes laughed to those he served. She envied him and his obvious comfort in his surroundings. In his life.

When had she last felt such a sense of security and acceptance?

Not since her grandmother Sophia had passed when she was thirteen. Before then, Sophia had been Chelsea’s refuge, her home and her haven. From her parents, her sadness, her...well, just about everything else back then. But Sophia couldn’t help her now.

In that second, Chelsea came to the conclusion that she would never be in this position again. No matter what it took. No matter what she had to do. And the first order of business was securing a safe, warm place for her and Henry to sleep for the night. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she would scour the entire city until she found a job.

Any job, really. Anything that would get her from this point to the next.

“I’ll be right back,” she said to Henry. “Just sit tight.”

“Where are you going?” He stopped playing with his straw and sat up straight, worry dotting his expression. “I want to come with you.”

“I know, but if you wait here, we won’t lose our table.” True, perhaps, but that wasn’t Chelsea’s concern. She didn’t want her son to know how desperate a position they were in. “I’m going up there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the bar. “We’ll be able to see each other the entire time. I won’t be long, and if you get nervous, you can come to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed after a momentary pause.

Leaning over, she gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Then, with hopes of a miracle, she approached the well-polished vintage oak bar. Again, she focused on the bartender, on his relaxed smile and his easy, almost graceful, movements. If a cheap—okay, almost free—motel existed in Steamboat Springs, he’d surely know of it, and if she were very lucky, he might have some ideas about possible job openings in the area.

Humiliating to ask for any type of help whatsoever—even basic advice—from a stranger. She’d have to tell him some version of the truth, maybe even admit she’d failed, otherwise he wouldn’t understand her dilemma. And if he didn’t understand, why would he bother himself with giving her anything more than pat answers?

All of this seemed too much, too overwhelming, and she almost retreated. Almost. But her earlier promise to do whatever it took strengthened her resolve. She marched forward and readied the words she’d have to say.

Because really, what else was she to do?

Chapter Two

The weight of her gaze struck him a millisecond before the sound of her voice, causing Dylan to overfill the pilsner. Frustrated with himself, he poured off some of the foam and wiped the side of the glass with the rag tucked into the waistband of his apron.

Would this night ever come to an end? He’d been off balance for the past hour, ever since handing the menus to the brunette and her kid. Not only did the out-of-character behavior hold zero logic, but it was annoying as hell. He didn’t appreciate having his head filled with curiosity and concern for absolute strangers. No matter how cute they were.

“Excuse me?” the brunette said again, louder this time, as he turned in her direction. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? About—”

“Kind of busy at the moment,” he said, a tad more bluntly than he’d anticipated. Chagrined, he forced a smile. “But sure. Just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” she said. “No problem.”

A solid ten minutes later, after he’d delivered the beer and two others, paused to chat with the blonde—who was now on her fourth shooter, but at least she’d taken to sipping instead of gulping—and cleaned up a couple of spills, he returned to where the brunette waited.

She stood in such a way that she could watch both her boy and Dylan, and therefore, she saw him coming. “I can see you’re busy,” she said when he stopped in front of her. “And I’m sorry to bother you, but I need...well, some advice. I’m guessing you’re from around here?”

“No bother, and that I am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

A rosy blush colored her cheeks, easily visible even in the dim lighting. “We just got here today, and it was supposed to be for a job. It...um... The job fell through. So, I’m wondering if you can direct me to a motel that isn’t too pricey? We’re not picky.”

Prickly dots of tension appeared between Dylan’s shoulder blades. He found no pleasure in hearing his assumptions were right on the money, but he choked down the questions her statement raised. Namely, why come for a job—whether it fell through or not—without having a place to stay? Seemed foolish and shortsighted, especially with a child to consider.

“That might be tough. This is the last weekend the mountain is open, so the city’s packed with tourists. It’s doubtful you’ll have any luck in finding a hotel with vacancies, cheap or not.” He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t. Couldn’t, really. “I can grab the phone book and circle a few possibilities, if you like. Doesn’t hurt to check.”

She nodded her thanks and swung her gaze toward her son. In the instant before she did, Dylan recognized distress in her eyes. Beautiful eyes, deep blue in color and framed in long, dark lashes. Eyes that shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be coated with fear.

Another idiotic, out-of-character thought. Shaking it off, Dylan retrieved the phone book and hurriedly circled the three cheapest motels he knew of that weren’t dumps. With that and the bar phone in hand, he set them down in front of her. “There you go,” he said, his voice capturing her attention. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

“Actually, I was also wondering if you knew of any places that might be hiring? We’re here now, so I thought we might as well stay.” Again, her cheeks darkened in embarrassment. “It’s a long drive back to where we came from. It seems pointless to turn around.”

He opened his mouth, set to tell her the truth: this was a bad weekend to be looking for work in Steamboat Springs. Most of the local businesses would be doing the same as Foster’s, which was skimming down their seasonal employee load until the summer rush began.

Except he couldn’t. The fear he’d witnessed seconds ago stopped him in his tracks.

“Let me give that one some thought,” he said instead, unwilling to dash her hopes so quickly. Ridiculous, though. The truth remained the truth. “Why don’t you make the calls, figure out where you’re sleeping for the night, and I’ll see what I can come up with?”

Relief mixed with gratitude—maybe even some surprise—softened her smile, relaxing the angled features of her face. “Thank you,” she said, her words quiet and hesitant. “My name is Chelsea, by the way. And my son is Henry.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dylan Foster.”

With that, he moved to the other end of the bar, making the sweep to see who needed what drink and who wanted to close out their tab. As he did, he considered her request, trying to come up with at least one job possibility to offer. Foster’s Pub wasn’t hiring. Neither was the other Foster family–owned business, the sporting-goods store his brother Cole managed.

So lost was he in these thoughts, his appraisal of the bar’s customers and their needs, he failed to pay adequate attention to the blonde. It was the sound of her laughter—a series of too loud, too playful, completely manufactured giggles—that yanked him clean out of his head and smack into the trouble he’d anticipated the whole damn evening.

It didn’t take an abundance of brainpower to size up the current situation. She had scooted herself closer to Mr. Miller Lite—so close she might as well have plopped herself on his lap—and was in the process of trailing her long red-painted fingernails down the front of his shirt. The poor sucker had his arm wrapped around her waist and was, by all appearances, clueless as to what was about to go down. Because coming toward the couple in long, heavy strides was another man—Mr. Heartbreaker, Dylan guessed—and he did not look pleased.

The blonde seemed quite content with herself and the blowout that was likely to occur. Dylan rushed forward, intent on stopping the altercation before it started and mentally cursing himself for allowing the brunette—Chelsea? Yeah, that was her name—to take over his thoughts. If not for her sad, fearful blue eyes, he would’ve been on top of this a hell of a lot sooner.

He stepped in front of the blonde at the same instant Mr. Heartbreaker arrived behind the couple. Bad luck, that, but Dylan smiled at the man and said, “What can I get for you?”

The man ignored Dylan. He grabbed Mr. Miller Lite’s arm and pulled it off the blonde’s waist, saying, “It’s time to go, Amber. You’ve made your point.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I have.” Excitement glimmered over her expression, there and gone in a blink. Facing the new arrival, she said, “Ask me tomorrow. And I’m not going anywhere with you. Now or ever. So you’re wasting your time.”

“Hold on here,” Mr. Miller Lite said. “Who is this guy? What’s this about, Amber?”

“His name is Brett, but there’s nothing to worry about,” Amber said, pressing her body another inch tighter against Mr. Miller Lite, her words a catlike purr. “He doesn’t have to ruin our fun or our night. He was just leaving.”

“We’re leaving together,” Brett the heartbreaker corrected. “And tomorrow, we’ll straighten all of this out, when you’re more willing to listen to reason.”

“Reason? I highly doubt there is anything—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip in a sultry type of pout. “Just leave.”

“You heard her,” Mr. Miller Lite said, disentangling himself from Amber so he could stand. “She doesn’t want to go with you—” he curled his fists at his sides “—so why don’t you stop embarrassing yourself and take off before someone gets hurt?”

Amber’s eyes widened and Brett’s mouth pursed into a glower. Uh-oh.

“Let’s all calm down. This seems like a private discussion,” Dylan interjected, considering how fast he’d be able to climb over the bar and physically get in between the two men and wishing that one of his brothers were also in attendance. Or, hell, both. “And this isn’t the place for a private discussion, so I think everyone should—”

That was all he managed to say before the first punch was thrown.

As far as fights went, Dylan had seen worse. Brett got two solid hits in, a clean one across Mr. Miller Lite’s jaw and the other straight into the gut. Mr. Miller Lite retaliated with an elbow punch, also to the gut, followed by several sharp jabs to the ribs. Brett was raring up for another go when Dylan and a couple of the pub’s employees managed to separate the two. From what he could see, no real damage was done, though both men would surely have a few bruises the next day. And, he was certain, very different stories to tell.

Fortunately, when Amber sidled next to Brett, obviously ready to mend fences, Mr. Miller Lite was smart enough not to argue. Dylan shooed him out first, and a few minutes later he sent Brett and Amber on their way. He didn’t know what had started their squabble, but he figured this wasn’t their first—nor would it be their last—go-around. They just had that look.

“The show is over, folks,” he said to the gawkers who hadn’t yet returned to their seats. None of whom had jumped in to help during the fight, thank goodness. That would have resulted in one hell of a mess. Everyone scattered to their various chairs, and within minutes the fight was forgotten and normalcy was restored.

It wasn’t until the hum of chatter had fully resumed that Dylan recalled Chelsea and her plight. Dammit. Nothing had changed. The facts were still the facts. There might be plenty of job openings in the city, but he didn’t know where, and really, that was fine. She was an adult and, despite the effect she’d had on him, a complete stranger. He had no business being concerned.

She wasn’t—in any way, shape or form—his responsibility.

Except when he searched the bar for her and her son and didn’t see them anywhere, knots formed in his stomach. Had she found a hotel? She’d mentioned they’d driven a long way, so he guessed she wouldn’t turn around for the return trip tonight, even if she had made the decision to leave. And honestly, if she didn’t have a job and had nowhere to go, why choose to stay?

Shaking off his absurd worries—why the devil did he care, anyway?—Dylan returned to working the bar and socializing with the customers. He refused to waste another second thinking about some woman he’d likely never see or hear from again.

The next several hours passed swiftly, and finally—thank God—it was closing time. Another hour spent putting the bar to rights and he was heading out through the kitchen, ready to go home and crash for a solid eight. Nine, if he could get away with it.

Haley was still in the kitchen, eating a late-night snack at the small round table the family and employees used. He grabbed a chair and sat down across from her, because as much as he wanted to hightail it home, he wouldn’t let his sister walk to her car alone.

“Long night,” she said in between bites of a turkey sandwich. “Long season.”

“Agreed. We’re almost done, though.” One more night of craziness and everything would calm down for a few months. Of course, as soon as he caught up on sleep and fun, boredom would settle in. It always did. “Any plans I should know about on your end?”

“Huh? Me? Nope.” She shrugged, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Nothing exciting, anyway. I mean, nothing that you would find exciting.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep, that’s so.” She twirled her hair tighter. “Just the normal in-between-season stuff.”

Dylan tried to find the energy to question his sister further, because she was—without a doubt—hiding something. The twirling of her hair, one of Haley’s tells, was a dead giveaway, but she could keep her secret. She was in a good place in her life. For well over a year now—closing in on two, actually—she’d been happy and in love with a man the entire Foster family considered one of their own. Whatever her secret, he highly doubted there was reason for alarm.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Please tell me you’re almost done with that sandwich.”

Narrowing her more-green-than-brown-tonight eyes, she gave him a protracted once-over. “Are you okay? You didn’t get your head beat on while breaking up that fight, did you?”

“Can’t win with you, Haley,” he joked. “Either I ask too many questions or not enough. I’m fine. Just tired and cranky and ready to head home.”

“Then go! What are you waiting for?”

He gave her a pointed look. “You. Finish eating so I can walk you out.”

“Oh. You don’t have to. Gavin dropped me off earlier, and he’ll be here to get me soon.” After swallowing another bite, she said, “I just called him. So no worries, big brother.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. He enjoys—” she smiled widely, happily “—picking me up.”

Dylan laughed at the innuendo, mostly to hide his reflexive wince of discomfort. Didn’t matter how much he liked Gavin, Haley would always be his baby sister. Some days he still saw her in pigtails. “I’m sure he does.”

After saying their good-nights, he walked outside and strode toward his parked car, which he’d left in the very back part of the lot. Cold wind smacked against his face in waves, so he tugged his coat collar up and over his jaw for protection. The air held the icy-crisp sharpness of winter, making it difficult to believe they were easing into spring.

He was about halfway across the parking lot when he heard the coughing, choking, sputtering sounds of an engine desperately trying to turn over. A stranded customer? Probably. A local, he’d guess, since tourists tended to rent vehicles, and typically those cars were newer and didn’t emit cries of impending death when started.

Stopping, he waited and hoped the engine would fire to life and he’d be free to go on his merry way. But nope, no such luck. The sputtering continued in growls and grunts, the gap in between each cough growing systematically longer by several seconds. In a matter of minutes, Dylan guessed, the car would become completely unresponsive.

Ah, hell. This he did not need.

But because his folks had raised him to lend a hand when one was needed, he switched his direction. Maybe the car just required a jump, which he could do without too much effort. If not, he’d lead the stranded person inside and wait with them until a tow truck arrived.

He approached the car—a decade-plus-old Chevy Malibu, he now saw—and grimaced at the now grinding, winding-down sound of an engine giving up the ghost. The driver needed to stop his attempts, because no amount of key turning and gas-pedal pumping was going to do the trick. And while he hated to admit it, he had serious doubts that the issue was the relatively simple matter of a battery requiring a jump.

This night seriously did not want to end.

Hungry, tired and...okay, irritated, Dylan paused mere inches from the car as recognition hit. His heart dropped clear to his stomach, because naturally, the person sitting behind the wheel frantically twisting the key in the ignition was none other than the too-skinny tall brunette who had consumed his thoughts for the majority of the evening. Chelsea.

And behind her, stretched out on the backseat, curled up in a blanket—and from his vantage point, apparently asleep—was her son, Henry. Dylan swore under his breath, knowing instinctively that she hadn’t found a hotel and that her convoluted plan was to spend the night in this behemoth of a car that now refused to start.

No heat. No safety. No nothing. Just an unprotected woman with her young child, sleeping in their car in a strange city on a cold, windy night with nowhere else to go. And his irritation climbed to a whole new level.

Striding forward, he raised his fist and knocked on the driver-side window. She froze before looking at him through the glass, her expression stricken at his sudden presence. Which meant, despite the glow from the parking-lot lights, she hadn’t seen or even sensed his approach. Pushing out a breath, reining in his annoyance, he gestured for her to roll down her window.

After a moment’s hesitation, she did.

“That car is dead in the water,” he said before she could utter a solitary syllable. “And even if it wasn’t, you can’t sleep there. It isn’t safe.”

“Who said I was sleeping here?” she responded, her tone strong and defensive. Well, he couldn’t blame her for either. As far as she knew, he was a bad guy. “And I always have trouble with the car when it’s cold outside, but I’m sure it will start. So we’re fine.”

She thought she was fine? Dylan bit back the curse he almost muttered and shook his head in resignation. He downgraded his hopeful nine hours of sleep to an adequate seven and jammed his hands into his coat pockets to fend off frozen fingers.

In a measured, calm meter, he said, “The last thing you are is fine.”

“The car will start.” Her chin firmed in stubbornness. “It’s just...temperamental in cold climates.”

“Uh-huh.” Weighing his next move, he thought of and discarded several reasonable arguments. He did not want to cause her undue alarm, but he also wasn’t about to walk off and leave her and her kid alone. “If you think you can get that car to run, I’ll wait right here while you do,” he said. “Then, since you said you’re not sleeping here, I assume that means you have somewhere else to go, so I’ll drive behind you to ascertain your car doesn’t become...temperamental again and leave you stranded.”

“You can go. I’m good,” she said hurriedly. “None of that is necessary.”

“In my book, all of it is necessary. Or,” he said, hoping he was wrong about the sleeping-in-the-car business, “I can call you a cab. You’ll be on your way in no time. Your choice.”

“No. I... The car will start.”

“I don’t think it will.”

She didn’t respond, just turned the key again...and then again...to no avail. “Come on,” she murmured before trying a third time. This attempt yielded a sharp, whining gasp.

“Don’t try again,” he warned. “Just—”

Chelsea swore and twisted the key once more. Nothing. Not a cough or a whine or a hack. Her shoulders trembled and she inhaled a deep breath. Several seconds elapsed before she looked at him, and when she did, her eyes were shiny with the promise of tears. Oh, hell.

“I didn’t find a hotel I can afford,” she admitted in a quiet, defeated voice that matched every inch of her body language. “And maybe the car won’t start until it warms up some tomorrow, but we’ll be fine. I have a ton of blankets and...and...”

“Get your son and get out of the car,” Dylan said before the promise of tears became a reality. That, he knew, would be his complete undoing. “I’ll carry whatever else you need. But you’re sure as hell not sleeping out here tonight.”

Doubt and fear clouded her gaze, her voice. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Do you have a better one?” No response. Dylan counted to three, and then to five. He understood, even admired, her reluctance. But something had to give to change the status quo. “Look,” he said, “I get it. This is an awkward situation and you don’t know me from Adam, but you’ll have to trust that my only goal here is to get some shut-eye. That won’t happen if I leave you and your son on a friggin’ cold night that will only get colder. Let me help. Please.”

“I appreciate your kindness, but...” She squinted her eyes in assessment. Of him and, probably, the veracity of his words. She gave a quick, decisive shake to her head. “It’s a generous offer, but I have to decline. It’s better, I think, if we stay here and wait for morning.”

“That’s—” He clamped his jaw shut before uttering the word idiotic. She was, after all, only trying to remain safe. She wasn’t going to budge and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave her and her kid out here alone, vulnerable to the weather and other unpredictable, possibly dangerous, factors. “All righty, then. You win,” he said, settling on the one remaining, uncomfortable-as-all-get-out alternative and pointing toward his parked car on the other side of the lot. “If you won’t come with me, then I guess I’m bunking in my car, as well. I’ll just bring it over here.”

“You can’t do that,” Chelsea said. “That’s...extreme and—”

“It’s the only thing I can do,” he said, his irritation climbing even higher. “You get to decide what you’re doing, and I get to decide what I’m doing. No use arguing.”

She stared at him and he stared right back, neither speaking. Finally, she nodded and started to roll up her window. He’d taken three full steps when she said, “Wait. Just...wait.”

Dylan paused, pivoted and leveraged his hands on his hips. “Waiting.”

“Can you promise... You’re not an ax murderer or something, are you?”

“No,” he said, choosing not to point out the obvious—most ax murderers didn’t go around warning their would-be victims of their intent. “I find axes rather—” he smiled, more in an effort to put her at ease than from any sense of amusement “—unwieldy as a rule.”

Her eyes widened in shock and she made a half squeal sort of a noise. No more than a second later, she blinked and her lips twitched in an almost grin. Good sign, that. “I see,” she said. “So I don’t have to worry that you’re an ax murderer?”

“Nope,” he said, straight-faced. “I’d rather put my victims in a car with no running heat on a cold, blustery night and wait for them to freeze to death. Far less bloody that way.”

“Less bloody, sure, but not exactly the most expedient plan.” She laughed, but it sounded forced to Dylan’s ears. Nervous, too. “I believe you’re not an ax murderer, but if I were to accept your offer of help...” Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping son. “Are you expecting anything in return? That is, anything from me in return?”

Oh, Lord. He should’ve seen that question coming. Every ounce of irritation fled. He no longer speculated on why Chelsea hadn’t planned ahead well enough to have a place to sleep or what had happened to cause her job to fall through. All he saw was a desperate woman who was petrified she’d have to pay too high a price to keep her son warm.

It was, Dylan realized, far too easy to imagine Haley in such a position, even though she didn’t yet have any children. And it was far too terrifying to consider if a different sort of man had offered his assistance. “All I’m expecting,” he said, meeting Chelsea’s gaze with his own and hoping she’d see his sincerity, “is to feel relief I didn’t leave you and Henry out here on your own. That’s it. That’s all there is to this. I swear.”

He could damn near see the debate raging inside her head, but in the end, she closed her eyes and released another sigh. “Whatever it takes,” she muttered to herself. Then, with eyes wide-open and focused on him, she nodded. “I’ll take you up on your offer, and I’m grateful and appreciative, but—” now she narrowed those gorgeous eyes of hers and the tempo of her speech hardened “—I will warn you that if you try anything at all, I do not find axes too unwieldy. I am, in fact, comfortable with a wide array of weapons. Quite comfortable.”

Meaning she’d kick his butt from here to Denver if he crossed a line. Well, no worries there. He wasn’t that type of man. Never had been, never would be.

But he couldn’t continue to deny his attraction toward her, either. He’d recognized her vulnerability early on, so it wasn’t that alone. Nor was it solely the tough attitude she’d just displayed. Nope, it was the mix of the two that yanked at his heart.

Nah. More appropriate to call that specific recipe in a woman his Achilles’ heel. A combination of traits in the opposite sex that tended to shove his common sense out the window in lieu of more basic, emotional responses. The need to protect, defend, take care of.

Once, so long ago now that it was almost difficult to remember his younger self, he’d married a woman with that same deadly blend of helplessness coated by an edge of steel. For a while, he’d been mesmerized by Elise’s wants and needs and his own desire to protect. He’d fallen for every sob, every shaky breath, every whispered devotion without ever second-guessing her intent. She’d been good. So damn good he hadn’t seen her betrayal coming.

But she’d set her sights on a different type of life than the one she was born into, so she’d used him as a...well, a stepping stone. When something better came along, she’d trounced his heart into smithereens and run off with another man. Pregnant, to boot. Not with his child, as he’d made damn sure of that before signing the divorce decree. But yeah, for Elise, he’d been nothing more than a stopgap. It still hurt, realizing that was all he’d meant to her.

He’d loved and trusted Elise. Her deceptions had left him scarred and vigilant. Smarter, though, too. Truth was, he couldn’t blame Elise for his own stupidity. There had been signs, he was sure, of her manipulations. If he’d paid more attention, he would’ve recognized those signs, and in doing so, saved himself from a world of pain and humiliation.

So, no. Dylan would never again allow himself to be taken for a ride by a tough-as-nails damsel in distress. No matter how attractive or appealing that woman might be.

He gave himself a mental shake and focused on Chelsea, who was still watching him with cautious eyes and a firm, unyielding mouth. Vulnerable and tough and...scared.

Yep, his Achilles’ heel.

“Got it,” he said, his tone abrupt and cool. “You’re an ace with weaponry of all kinds. Now, if you’re done with the warnings, let’s get the two of you inside where it’s warm. We’ll get your car towed tomorrow and see about getting it fixed.”

He thought for a second she was going to present a whole new slew of arguments. But then she unlocked her door and stepped out. While Chelsea gathered her son, he grabbed the overnight bags she pointed to, along with a patched-up stuffed bear that had seen better days.

And when Henry opened his eyes and asked his mother if they’d found their new fresh start, Dylan’s heart about broke in two. But that feeling would lead him straight into disaster, so he shored up his defenses and promised to keep both mother and son at a distance.

A modest enough promise to stick to for one night.

Helping Chelsea and her son was the right thing to do. No more, no less. Tomorrow, he expected she’d be on her way back to wherever she’d come from. This pull he felt toward her wouldn’t have the opportunity to grow or become problematic.

It would simply disappear.

Chapter Three

Panic and nausea roiled in Chelsea’s stomach as she followed Dylan through the parking lot toward the back of the restaurant. She clutched Henry’s hand tighter—he’d woken the second she’d attempted to lift him into her arms and had insisted on walking—and wished she weren’t so afraid. What type of woman trusted a man’s word when she didn’t even know the man?

Well, she supposed, the type of woman who had run out of options. A sad, pitiful, terrifying description that now fit her perfectly.

She’d called each of the hotels Dylan had circled, plus a couple more for good measure. They were all cheap, but not cheap enough, and even then, none of them had any vacancies until tomorrow night. When the fight broke out, she’d decided it was best to leave, so she’d returned to the table and told Henry they were going to try something different that night by camping in their car. And yes, she’d made the prospect sound fun and adventurous.

Her darling, sweet boy didn’t put up a fuss or ask too many questions. Rather, he nodded and smiled and asked—again—if he could have a root beer before they left. Of course, she’d expected he’d react well. That was her kid. He just sort of went with the flow—though the way life had treated them since his birth almost demanded such a disposition. Nothing had gone easy.

Disowned by her parents, which honestly had been more of a blessing than a curse, abandoned by Henry’s father and left to her own devices to figure out all the messy details. Where to live. Where to work. Whom to trust. How to be the mother that Henry deserved.

And every damn time she thought she’d made a little progress, something would go wrong. Her apartment building had caught on fire. The best job she’d ever had, which wasn’t saying much, had been eliminated. Her purse was stolen. Her car broke down.

One thing after another. She’d barely recovered from one disaster when a new one would occur. It was as if fate had decided that nothing—meaning not one thing—would ever go as planned. So, she supposed, not only had Henry learned to go with the flow, but she had, as well.

But this? Accepting help from a strange man and trusting he wasn’t going to turn into a monster the second he had them alone was a new, frightening obstacle. Her gut told her he was safe and trustworthy, but her brain insisted she had just made a gigantic mistake.

So as they trudged along, she considered what she had in her purse that could be, if needed, used as a weapon. Her keys, maybe. If she could get them spread through her fingers just right fast enough. There was the minibottle of hair spray. Might work well enough if she could get the spray to hit his eyes, to blind him momentarily. Give her a few seconds to...what? Run?

She tried to imagine running with Henry at her side or in her arms and knew they wouldn’t get very far. Her keys, then. She’d use the hair spray to gain enough minutes to get to her keys, which she’d then use to protect herself and her son. After that, she didn’t know, but stupid or not, she felt considerably better having any sort of a plan.

“My parents used to keep an apartment upstairs,” Dylan was saying as they approached the back door of the restaurant. “All of us kids lived there at one time or another. Now it’s more of a space for family meetings, but there are sofas and blankets, and it’s warm.”

“Sounds considerably better than the car,” she said, her thoughts still focused on defense. And whether she fell into the cautious-but-smart category or the too-stupid-to-live one. She hoped the former. The too-stupid-to-live women always ended up dead in the movies. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

They stepped inside, and Chelsea dropped Henry’s hand to fish through her purse. The second she found the hair-spray bottle, she pulled her son close to her side and, at the same time, put a little more breathing distance between them and Dylan. Just in case.

“Back so soon? I told you that Gavin is on his way, big brother, so there’s no reason to... Oh!” The waitress who’d served them earlier rounded the corner, stopping short when she saw Chelsea and Henry. “I see we have company,” she said. “Let me guess...car problems?”

“Hey, Haley. And yup, you guessed right,” Dylan said. “This is Chelsea and Henry, and their car doesn’t seem to like the cold weather all that much. They...ah...didn’t have anywhere to stay, so I figured they could sleep upstairs. Just for tonight.”

Relief filtered in, wiping out most of Chelsea’s nerves. Someone else was here, and that made all of this seem much more normal. She loosened her hold on Henry.

“Okay,” Haley said, as if such an occurrence happened on a regular basis. And hey, as far as Chelsea knew, strangers often slept upstairs. Then the woman knelt in front of Henry. “Hello there,” she said. “Remember me? I brought you your hamburger and fries for dinner.”

“’Course I remember. You forgot the dip,” Henry said. “But you got it after I told you.”

Haley laughed. “That’s right.” A series of raps on the door had her straightening into a stand. “That would be Gavin,” she said to Dylan. “Are you all set, or...?”

“We’re good. Go home and get some sleep.”

“I think I will.” Haley waved at Chelsea and Henry before giving Dylan a quick hug. “See you all tomorrow,” she said, unlocking and opening the door. “Sleep tight and don’t—”

“Let the bedbugs bite!” Henry said, finishing Haley’s sentence. “Mommy says that all the time, except she tells me to let the love bugs bite.” He scowled. “I don’t want any bug bites!”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Haley said with another laugh. “Well, then, just sleep tight.”

Dylan locked the door behind his sister and Chelsea’s former apprehension returned. Not as strong, but still potent. Sensible, she knew, even with the normalcy of the exchange between Dylan and Haley. Better to be on guard and prepared than oblivious and taken by surprise.

“Anyone need anything before we head upstairs?” Dylan asked.

“It’s too late for soda,” Chelsea said to Henry, anticipating his response. “If you’re thirsty, you can have water.”

“Can I have a root beer tomorrow with lunch?” Henry asked. “You won’t let me have soda for breakfast, so I won’t ask for that.”

“Yes, Henry,” she said, too tired and nervous to worry about tomorrow.

“He really likes root beer, I take it?” Dylan didn’t wait for a reply, just gestured toward a door on the other side of the kitchen. “Let’s go on up and get you settled.”

“I like this new fresh start, Mommy,” Henry said, following Dylan without a second’s hesitation. “The other house was nice, but this one is better. It has the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen and they have burgers and fries and real live fights! Pow, pow!”

“We left right after that fight started,” Chelsea explained as they climbed a narrow flight of stairs, pretending with everything she had that she was as comfortable as Dylan seemed. “And he was a little bummed to miss the excitement.”

“You know, Henry,” Dylan said, opening the door at the top of the stairs. He reached in and flipped on the lights. “Fights might seem exciting, but they’re dangerous and not the best way to settle a disagreement. Typically, anyway. So you didn’t miss much.”

“To him, it was noisy and fun.” Wrong, probably, but Chelsea felt the need to defend Henry’s enthusiasm. “He’s just a child and hasn’t yet connected fights with violence, because he has had zero exposure to violence. Which is how it should be.”

“Yup, that is exactly how it should be. I wasn’t condemning his view, just pointing out a different one. That’s all.” Herding them into the brightly lit room, Dylan said, “When I was a kid, me and my brothers were almost always in some sort of a skirmish. It’s natural.”

“Right. I just... I thought you were... Never mind.”

“You thought I was remarking on your parenting skills or something along those lines?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” To change the subject, she asked, “You said your brothers, as in plural? How many? Older or younger?”

“Two. One older, one younger.”

She waited for additional details, but he didn’t offer any. Disappointed, though she couldn’t put into words why, she said, “I have one sister. Younger.”

“That’s good. Family is important.”

“Depends on the family,” she said, thinking of her upbringing. Her father’s near-constant state of displeasure, with just about everything, really, but most often focused on Chelsea. Her mother’s passive disregard or worse, when she chimed in with her own cruel words in an effort to appease her husband rather than standing up for her kids. And Chelsea’s inability to succeed in their eyes, despite her many attempts. “Some families aren’t very family-like.”

Dylan gave her a question-filled look but didn’t comment. That was fine. She didn’t talk about her family with anyone. Not the details, at any rate. Her response had been made out of nervousness and a need to keep the silence at bay.

“We’re sleeping here?” Henry spun in a circle, taking in the space. “There aren’t any beds! Mommy, we could build a fort under the table. Like an inside tent!”

Chuckling, Dylan said, “This used to be the living room. Now it’s a meeting space.” He deposited the overnight bags and Teddy on the large rectangular table before nodding toward the adjoining kitchenette. “There should be water bottles in the fridge, and you’ll probably find some snacks in the cupboard. Nothing fancy, but my family likes to eat.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Chelsea said. “And really, this is so nice—”

“Can we make a fort?” Henry ran over to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. “Like that time we didn’t have any beds? Remember, Mommy?”

Heat flooded her face. Of course she remembered. It had been after the fire, and most of what they’d had was too smoke damaged to keep. Months had passed before she’d replaced even half of the items they’d lost. She’d never replaced her bed, but Henry’s she had.

And even that awful set of circumstances had been better than this.

“Yes, Henry, I remember. But I don’t know about building a fort. This isn’t—”

“No reason to, not that forts aren’t fun. But that room over there,” Dylan said, “used to be the bedroom. We’ve turned it into a break room of sorts. There’s a couple of sofas that you two can sleep on, and there should be plenty of blankets and a few pillows in the closet. You’ll have privacy. Bathroom is back there, as well. Make yourself at home.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Chelsea repeated. “This is nice of you. More than nice.”

“Nice is nice. I’m not sure what being more than nice entails.” Dylan shook his head, frustration appearing in the rigid set of his shoulders. “I’m not doing anything that any other decent person wouldn’t.”

“I don’t have that experience,” she said. “Regardless, it’s kind and you could’ve walked away to begin with. You didn’t. You came over to see what the problem was. That alone is more than I’m accustomed to, and I—” Snapping her mouth shut, irritated she’d given even that much of her life away, she finished with “Thank you. Because of you, we’re not sleeping in the car.”

Compassion and concern glittered in Dylan’s eyes, darkening them into a smoky green. But when he spoke, she didn’t hear either. What she heard was sharp annoyance. “Offering help when someone is in need is the decent thing to do, especially when it’s an easy fix. This is an easy fix for your dilemma. Most of the folks I know would do the same. If you don’t know people like that, then I’d say you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.”

Whoa. What had riled him up so much? “That isn’t what I meant,” she said in a rush. “I’m saying thank you for being so decent. Why can’t you accept a simple thank-you?”

“Stop being mad,” Henry said in a wobbly, uncertain voice. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, honey, we’re not mad. We’re just talking. Promise!” Chelsea wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulders and pulled him close for a hug. When she let go, she said, “Everyone is tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, sweetie.”

“That’s right. No one’s mad,” Dylan said quickly in a warmer tone. “As your mom said, we’re tired. It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Me with work and you two with driving.”

“Exactly.” Chelsea picked up the bags from the table and Henry’s stuffed animal—hers, actually, from her childhood. A gift from Sophia. “Let’s say good-night and get some sleep.”

“Good night,” Henry said, tugging on Dylan’s shirt so he was forced to look down at him. “And thank you for not letting us camp in our car. It wasn’t as fun as I thought. And for making Mommy not cry anymore. I don’t like it when she cries.”

Emotion clogged Chelsea’s throat. She hadn’t realized Henry had heard her crying.

Dylan blinked once, twice. “I don’t like it when my mom cries, either. So you’re welcome, Henry. I’m glad I can help. And don’t give up on camping just yet. It can be fun when the weather is nice and you have a warm sleeping bag and a campfire to roast marshmallows.”

“That would be fun,” Henry said, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe you can take me and Mommy camping sometime? I don’t think she’d know how to make a campfire.”

“Oh, I think I could figure it out,” Chelsea said, feeling the very real need for solitude. To think. To rest. To gather her bearings. She looked at Dylan and moved her lips into some semblance of a smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice firm. “But I can take it from here.”

She led Henry in the direction of the room Dylan had said they could sleep in, and just as she opened the door, she heard him say, “You’re welcome, Chelsea.”

And strangely, even with the turmoil of the day and her extreme unease at accepting help from anyone, let alone a man she’d only just met, the sound of Dylan’s voice in that second added a level of comfort, of safety, into her swirling emotions. There was something about him that tugged at her sensibilities, made her want to lean into him and...just let him take care of all the messy details. And how screwed up was that?

She was fine on her own. Well, mostly fine.

The last thing she needed in her complicated life was another complication. Even so, as she made up the sofas with the blankets and pillows she found in the closet, she remembered her earlier wish—to have allowed just one trustworthy person into her life—and she couldn’t help but wonder if she let her guard down enough, if maybe Dylan would prove to be that person.

Unlikely—because, as he’d so plainly said, he was only doing what any decent person would do—but it was a nice thought. Nice and...hopeful. And right now she’d take any bit of hope she could find. She’d wanted, had prayed, for a new fresh start to present itself.

Perhaps this night, her car’s demise and trusting in Dylan’s words and accepting his help—for tonight only—was the beginning of a better life. For her and for Henry. Perhaps.

If not, well, she’d gone down that road plenty. It was familiar, if not friendly, ground.

* * *

Yawning, Dylan attempted for what had to be the hundredth time to find a comfortable way to sleep while stretched out between two straight-backed, hard-as-a-rock meeting-table chairs. He carefully maneuvered his arm behind his head to function as a cushion and at the same time flexed his legs to try loosening his tight muscles.

Bad idea. The movement was enough to overturn the chair his feet rested on, and in three seconds flat, he’d toppled to the floor. He pulled himself to a sitting position and pressed his forehead against his knees. Nope. Using those chairs as a bed couldn’t be done.

Not by him, at any rate.

If he’d had his wits about him, he’d have grabbed a blanket and a pillow before Chelsea and Henry had turned in for the night. Now their door was closed and he guessed—based on Chelsea’s earlier concerns—locked tight. At this point, he’d be fortunate to grab a meager four hours of shut-eye, let alone the nine he’d originally hoped for.

Hell. Luck had nothing to do with it. Even if he somehow managed to contort his body in such a way to relax enough to fall asleep, thoughts of the woman and her child in the next room would keep him awake. Standing, he shoved the chairs back into their normal positions and went to the fridge for a bottle of water. He’d gone without sleep before—he’d get by.

Unscrewing the cap, he took a long swig and considered his options. Morning would come fast. He was supposed to clock in at the sporting-goods store by twelve, where he’d work until four. Then he’d stop by Reid and Daisy’s place to check in on his sister-in-law and his four-month-old niece and nephew, Charlotte and Alexander.

Twins. Who would’ve guessed?

Not Reid. Apparently, the sight of two babies on the ultrasound monitor had thrown Dylan’s typically stoic older brother into a state of near collapse. Or, as Daisy had explained, “His face turned white and he almost fainted in shock.”

Hard to imagine, that. But Reid’s job as a ski patroller, along with the help he provided the family’s businesses, meant extralong, exhausting hours during the winter season. Since September, Dylan—well, all of the Fosters, really—had taken to dropping in on a daily basis. First to keep Daisy company—and appease Reid’s concerns, which had grown at the same rate as the size of Daisy’s stomach—in the last months of her pregnancy, and now to lend a hand. And Dylan enjoyed hanging with Daisy and helping with the babies.

Well, okay, he wasn’t all that fond of spit-up. Or changing diapers. But the rest of it was good. Family, in Dylan’s estimation, was all that really mattered.

After his stint there, he’d return to the pub by seven to tend the bar. Another long day awaited him, and this one he’d have to tackle with limited energy. Easier knowing it was the last crazy day of the season and that he’d then have more than enough hours to refuel.

Without thought, he tipped his head toward the room Chelsea and Henry slept in and mentally added them to his to-do list for the day. That car would have to be towed, and hopefully repaired, early enough so they could be on their way. They had to be on their way, quick-like, before he gave in to the impulse to fix not only her car, but her life.

Henry’s words rang in Dylan’s ears. She’d cried. And at some point they hadn’t owned beds, so they’d slept in a fort. Of course, that could mean something as simple as they’d just moved and their furniture had yet to be delivered. Could mean that.

But he didn’t think it did.

Closing his eyes, Dylan mentally replayed everything he’d seen and heard since Chelsea had first walked into Foster’s. Her body language, her words—what she’d admitted to and what she hadn’t, what he could only speculate on—the fear and desperation he’d recognized in her expression and the bits of information that Henry had inadvertently shared.

He’d already pieced together enough, even before finding her stranded in her car, to realize she was in a jam. Until this minute, though, he’d categorized her current predicament as a momentary spell of bad luck. Most people had family and friends to rely on in such moments, to get them through to better days. While he hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought, somewhere in his brain he’d assumed she had the same and that when she returned home—wherever home was—she’d have that support. But dammit, his gut told him that wasn’t the case.

And if so, what was he to do about that?

The sound of a door opening, followed by a quick gasp of surprise, interrupted his thought process. When he looked, he saw the woman herself, plastered against the door frame, wearing a long pink T-shirt and loose, candy-cane-striped pajama bottoms. Tension tightened her mouth, and all he wanted to do was make her smile.

“It occurs to me,” he said with what he hoped was a friendly, not-threatening-at-all tenor, “that I’ve yet to learn your last name. You know mine, but in case you forgot, it’s Foster.”

“Oh. Um...our last name is Bell,” she said, her voice holding that husky, barely awake quality. Also, though, a thread of wariness. “Chelsea and Henry Bell.”

“Nice to officially meet you, Chelsea Bell,” Dylan said, curious if a Mr. Bell existed somewhere or if Chelsea had simply never married and Henry had her name. Dammit. He shouldn’t care. “Something wake you or were you looking for me?”

“I... No, not looking for you. I thought I’d get a bottle of water, but I didn’t expect to see you up here. I guess I thought you’d go downstairs or—” She broke off, bit her bottom lip. “Dumb assumption to have. Why would you leave us alone when I could be a thief or—”

“An ax murderer?” Dylan asked in dry humor. “Sorry, but I don’t believe we have even one ax on the premises. And if you’re a thief, you can’t be that great at your job.”

“Is that so? What makes you say that?”

“Let’s start with the look of that car out there.”

“Perhaps I’m an excellent thief and my car is a...um...cover.” A soft, sleepy smile appeared. And she went from cute to beautiful. Breathtakingly so. “To hide my true, nefarious intent and the fact that I have oodles of diamonds and gold nuggets hidden away in the trunk.”

“Diamonds and gold nuggets? Good to know. We won’t just fix your car tomorrow, we’ll buy you a new one. Something more appropriate for a nefarious diamond-and-gold-nugget thief.”

“I...” Pushing away from the door frame, she approached the kitchenette. “If I can’t afford a hotel room, I certainly can’t afford whatever repairs that car needs. I was thinking of trying to sell it to a junkyard. Maybe I can get a couple hundred bucks.”

“I already guessed you didn’t have the finances for the tow or the repairs, so I thought I’d front you the money. It’s no trouble.” Dylan swallowed another gulp of water, curious as to what type of damsel in distress she actually was. Would she put up all sorts of arguments before giving in and accepting his help? Or would she be like Elise and not even bother with the pretense, smile sweetly and thank him for his kindness? Or would she have an entirely different type of reaction? “You can pay me back after you get home and settled. There isn’t any rush.”

She stopped her forward motion and frowned. Shook her head as if she had water stuck in her ears after a long dip in the pool. “What did you just say?”

Okay, then. A different type of reaction. He repeated his words, verbatim. And waited with interest to see what road she’d take them down next.

“Thank you, but no,” she said. Her eyes, her voice—everything about her—were cool and crisp and matter-of-fact. He’d irritated her? Yup, that he had, and his interest increased. Tenfold. “The truth is, I have more use of a couple hundred bucks in my wallet than I do with that car and owing you who knows how much money. So, again, thank you but no.”

She meant her words. And that told Dylan a hell of a lot about her character. More, probably, than she’d like him to know. Still didn’t mean he trusted her or wanted her to stick around. Only once had a woman affected him in as strong and intense a fashion as this woman. He’d fallen for Elise, hard. And look where that path had taken him?

“That’s fine,” he said, opening the fridge and tossing her a bottle of water. She caught it easily. “I’ll help you with that in the morning and, once you have the cash, drive you over to the bus station. If I run out of time, someone in my family will be happy to help.”

“Why, you’re just full of helpful suggestions, aren’t you?”

“Trying, I guess,” he said, watching her carefully. She wasn’t just irritated, she was...well, fuming would be the right description. “Something wrong with that?”

“No.” She sucked in a large breath, held it and then let it out with a loud whoosh of air. “Yes, actually. Yes, there is something wrong with that.”

“Care to explain?”

“Just that...you don’t know me and I don’t know you. It isn’t your call what I do next,” she said, her words coming at a fast clip, as if she was afraid common sense would reel them back in. “I am very appreciative of your assistance tonight, but when morning comes, I’ll go about my business and leave you to yours. So, no, I won’t be requiring a ride to the bus station from you or your family. I don’t even need to go to the bus station.”

Ah, hell. “You’re planning on staying, then?”

“I’m planning on staying,” she confirmed, losing her steam. She stared at her toes—which were painted a dark shade of purple—and exhaled, brought her gaze back to his. “I told Henry this was our fresh start at a brand-new life, and I am not going to disappoint him again.”

And double hell.

“You don’t have a job,” he said, stating the obvious. “Or a place to live.”

“I’ll find both. And until I do—” she lifted her chin in stubborn hope “—I’ll find one of those cheap motels and pray I get enough from selling the Malibu to see us through.”

Before he could stop himself, before his logic kicked in and squelched that damn desire to protect, defend and take care of, he heard himself saying, “If you’re dead and determined to stay, we’ll figure out something better than a cheap motel. And once I talk to my family, we might be able to scrounge up some work. On a temporary basis, that is.”

Dark blue eyes blinked in surprise and emotion. Sappy emotion. She looked away, off to his left, and a tremble coursed through her body. “I’ve never met a man like you, but as shockingly kind as your offer is, this time I’ll have to say no.”

“You said no about sleeping here and changed your mind.”

“I did. Because of Henry.”

“Who is still in the picture, unless he jumped out the window and ran away?”

She looked at him then, all soft and vulnerable and...beautiful. It took every ounce of willpower not to walk the few inches between them, pull her into his arms and promise her that everything would be fine. Better than fine. That she didn’t have to worry.

Fortunately, he ignored that instinct and waited her out.

“I can take care of my son,” she said. “I have since the day he was born, without anyone swooping in to help or fix my problems.”

And wasn’t that a damn shame? He shook off the thought and shrugged. “Not swooping,” he said. “Just extending a hand, but as you said, it’s your call.”

“That’s right. And...and I have a plan.”

He didn’t state the numerous flaws her plan held. Such as, even if she located employment right off the bat, she wouldn’t receive an actual paycheck for two weeks. Maybe longer. And the cheapest not-a-dump motel in town that he knew of—even with the less expensive off-season rates that would start in a few days—hovered around the fifty-dollar-per-night range. Supposing she got five hundred dollars for her car, and he thought that was the most the junkyard paid, she’d only have enough funds for a week.

But he didn’t point out any of these facts. Instead, he gave her a short nod and said, “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. For both of us.”

Chelsea opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it just as fast. Another visible tremble swept through her slender body before she disappeared behind the safety of her closed door. Dylan stood there and tried—oh, he tried—not to make her and her son his responsibility.

Because nothing had changed there, either. They weren’t.

She was in a tough predicament, yes, but she had refused his help. That should be enough to allow him to walk away without feeling any residual guilt. He couldn’t, though.

Just couldn’t.

Swearing quietly, he finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. He’d see what he could do about giving Chelsea and Henry Bell their new fresh start, but without her knowledge. And once they were adequately settled, he’d put both of them out of his head and wipe his hands of the whole ordeal.

Before his Foster DNA kicked in again and had him doing something even more insane. Like falling in love with both mother and son. Nope. That couldn’t happen.

Wouldn’t. Happen. No way in hell.

Chapter Four

The sound of a door thudding shut followed by short, quick footsteps scampering across the hardwood floor woke Dylan with nearly the same effectiveness as a shotgun blast. Well, to say he’d been fast asleep would be an overstatement. Fitfully dozing, perhaps.

Squinting open one eye, he saw Henry, who was clothed in the brightest fire-engine-red pajamas Dylan had ever seen, approach the minifridge. Assuming the boy would grab a bottle of water and return to the other room, Dylan closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

What had he gotten himself into? How in the hell was he going to create a brand-new fresh start for a vulnerable, stubborn woman and her feisty child?

It was a helluva lot. More than he’d originally realized when he’d arrived at the harebrained scheme a few short hours ago. Chelsea required a job, a place to live, child care for Henry and, unless the prior three were within walking distance of each other, reliable transportation until she could afford to buy another car.

Again, he considered the simplest action: leaving her to her own devices and going on his merry way as if they’d never met. And once again the tension in his gut told him—in no uncertain terms—that he couldn’t. Nope, she was not his logical responsibility. That was fact. Yet fate had seen to it that she’d walked into his family’s restaurant, that her car had broken down in their parking lot and that he’d been the Foster to find her.

Sensible didn’t have a foothold in the equation.

Urgency to get started overtook his body’s desire to sleep, but Henry hadn’t yet returned to his mother. Once he did, Dylan would go downstairs and call the junkyard, see about getting someone over here within the next few hours. Then he’d check in with his family to see if they had any ideas, and if all went well, he’d soon have the beginnings of a plan in place.

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when Dylan heard a door open and close, and then the telltale sounds of Henry all but running down the stairs to the restaurant’s kitchen. Dammit all. What was that kid up to?

Sitting, Dylan wiped the grit from his eyes and contemplated his next move. The kid couldn’t be more than four or five, tops, and the kitchen wasn’t exactly childproofed.

He stood and followed Henry’s trail, taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts of sharp knives and gas-burning stoves filling his heart with dread. When he entered the kitchen, he stopped and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The kid was standing in front of the commercial refrigerator, his sandy-brown hair spiked and mussed from sleep, with the door wide-open. He was staring at its contents so intently he seemed oblivious to Dylan’s presence.

“Morning, Henry,” he said. “Hungry, I take it?”

The boy startled, sending a tremor through his thin, almost bony body. “You scared me! You shouldn’t do that. Mommy says it’s not nice to scare people.”

“Sorry, kid. But you probably shouldn’t be exploring on your own.” At least, not in a room filled with an abundance of child-safety hazards. If Dylan hadn’t been awake, anything could have happened. He shoved that thought far into the abyss—the boy was fine, after all—and asked, “Does your mom know you’re down here, or is she still sleeping?”

“I told her and she said she’d get up in five minutes, but she didn’t.”

“Ah.” And that, Dylan knew from his own childhood, was equivalent to receiving permission to go ahead and do as you pleased. “Well, I bet your mom is more tired than usual.”

“Right, so I ’cided to let her sleep.” Henry finally turned to look at Dylan. “She was sad last night. I thought if I made her breakfast, she’d smile. I like it when she smiles.”

Unexpected emotion gathered in Dylan’s throat. He swallowed it down, nodded and knelt in front of Henry. “That’s a fine idea. Mind if I help? I’d like to see your mom smile, too.”

“Don’t know,” Henry said, his tone solemn. “Do you cook good or bad?”

“Um. Neither, I guess. More like somewhere in between.”

Narrowing his eyes in contemplation, the tyke tapped his chin with the practiced seriousness of a fifty-year-old business magnate in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation. “I guess it’s okay if you help, but I’m in charge. It was my idea.”

“True. Though, you do realize that being in charge is a big responsibility? Maybe we could agree to be partners?” Dylan ruffled Henry’s hair. “What do you say?”

“I know what foods Mommy likes and what she doesn’t like,” Henry pointed out, expertly avoiding both of Dylan’s questions. “Do you know what foods she likes?”

“Other than bread and coffee, nope.”

“Then I should be in charge.”

Sensing this conversation could continue ad nauseam unless someone gave in, Dylan took the fall. “All righty, then, you call the shots and I’ll cook.” Pleasure at winning gleamed in Henry’s eyes, and Dylan forced back a chuckle. “Does you mom like eggs? Peanut-butter toast? Oatmeal? Or—”

“Nothing with peanut butter! She hates peanut butter because she’s...she’s—” Henry curled his bottom lip into his mouth as he searched for the correct word “—allergic! Gives her itchy bumps and makes her cough. She wouldn’t smile then. So, no peanut butter.”

Amused, Dylan nodded. He distinctly remembered Henry stating that his mother had eaten a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast the prior day, so he doubted she was allergic. No sense in arguing with the guy in charge, though. “You’re right. Coughing and itchy rashes don’t typically make people smile. How does scrambled eggs and toast sound?”

“Okay, but not good enough.” Henry stubbed his toe into the tile floor. “I want her to smile a lot. And be really happy. So something better.”

“Something better, huh? What about—”

Before Dylan could finish his sentence, the back door to the kitchen opened, sending a blast of cold air into the room. His mother. Had to be. In all likelihood, Haley had already spread the news about his overnight guests. And no way, no how, would Margaret Foster set aside her curiosity or her concern until she’d deemed nothing was amiss.

Thank God, too. His mom could cook up a storm. Better yet, once she learned of Chelsea’s unfortunate set of circumstances, she would be more than happy to help.

“Hi, Mom,” Dylan said as he heard her soft-footed approach. “Perfect timing. We’re trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and it’s a tall order. We could use your input.”

Margaret’s concerned expression transformed into a cheerful smile the instant she realized a child was in attendance. She unbuttoned and removed her coat, which she hung on one of the wall hooks, saying, “Then it’s a good thing I decided to come right over. What are we trying to accomplish with breakfast? Other than no more empty tummies, that is.”

“We want to make my mommy smile,” Henry said. “And I’m Henry. I’m four! And I slept upstairs last night because our car wouldn’t turn on no more.”

“It is so nice to meet you, Henry! I’m Margaret, Dylan’s mom, and we’ll come up with the perfect breakfast.” Then, with a nod toward the still-open refrigerator door, she said, “Tell me, though, are you two trying to cool the kitchen or warm up the fridge?”

“Both, actually,” Dylan said, moving out of his mother’s way. “We were in the middle of conducting a science experiment on how fast temperatures can change. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

“Nope, that isn’t right.” He cast those innocent eyes of his on Margaret and, with an impish grin, said, “I was looking for food, but then he asked me a bunch of questions. I forgot about the door and he didn’t tell me to close it. He’s the grown-up, though, so it’s his fault.”

“Hey! You’re going to get me in trouble!” In a completely spontaneous movement, Dylan picked up Henry and swung him around in the air. Little-boy giggles along with Margaret’s surprised laughter poured into the room, and Dylan’s heart...well, it friggin’ soared.

Really wasn’t a better way to phrase the sensation.

When he set Henry safely on the floor, he said, “I’m not so grown-up that my mom can’t ground me...or worse. She might look and act all nice and sweet, but she’s tough.”

Margaret sniffed, reached behind them to shut the refrigerator door. “Had to be tough, raising boys like you and your brothers. Trouble, all three of you.”

“And Haley was a princess?”

“Haley was about the same trouble as the three of you combined, and yes, she is and always has been the princess of the family. But that,” Margaret said with a pointed look at Dylan, “wasn’t due to me or your father. That girl was spoiled rotten by you and your brothers.”

Yeah, well, true enough. Haley’s entrance into the Foster family had been met with spectacular awe, enormous love and fierce loyalty from each of the Foster brothers. She was theirs to care for, to protect, to teach and to guide. Reid, Dylan and Cole had taken their role as her big brothers to heart. They still did. Probably always would.

It was, Dylan realized with some shock, a type of affection not so different from what he’d just experienced with Henry in his arms, hearing his high-pitched, happy-as-all-get-out giggles. But that was an emotion typically only connected with family.

Certainly not with strangers.

Loud warning bells went off in Dylan’s head, which he flat-out ignored. Henry was a cute kid, and really, who didn’t enjoy the sound of a child’s laugh? Dylan closed his eyes and pushed out a breath. He’d shared a fun moment with Henry. That was it.

“Are you feeling okay?” Suddenly, his mother’s cool palm was pressed tight against his forehead. “No fever, but you’re paler than normal.”

“I’m fine.” Dylan opened his eyes and smiled. “Promise. Just tired.”

“Hmm. If you say so.”

“I do.” Though he’d be better once he got everything back on track. He’d start with the junkyard. “I need to make a quick phone call. Can you help Henry with breakfast?”

“Of course.” Margaret retreated a few inches and gave him another once-over before focusing on Henry. “Pancakes or waffles? Which do you think is the most smile-worthy?”

“Waffles!” Henry said without a second’s hesitation. “With blueberries and syrup and lots and lots of whippy cream and bacon. I love... I mean, Mommy loves bacon!”

“Excellent choices, but maybe we’ll go light on the whippy cream,” Margaret said, pulling on an apron and tying the straps around her waist. “Let’s grab a chair and move it to the sink, and you can be a big help by cleaning the blueberries. I’ll show you how.”

Dylan made his way toward the main restaurant and bar area, waiting until the last possible second before exiting the kitchen to say, “I should only be a few minutes. And later this morning, if we can get everyone over here, I’d like to set up a family meeting.”

“It’s already set,” Margaret said, her voice a tad too bubbly for Dylan’s peace of mind. “Everyone will be here shortly, so don’t go running off anywhere.”

Her statement made him pause. “Why’d you call everyone so fast?”

“It isn’t every day that you invite perfect strangers to stay the night, now, is it? Seemed unusual enough to merit a discussion. Apparently, I was correct.”

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